


When I Get What I Want

by ninhursag



Series: Possessive Charms [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Fist Fights, Hurt Leonard Snart, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, Leonard Snart Lives, M/M, Masochism, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sara Lance/Oliver Queen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Mick Rory, Queer Het, Rough Sex, Sara Lance Needs a Hug, Scars, Submission, Trauma, Very undernegotiated, undernegotiated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninhursag/pseuds/ninhursag
Summary: In which, after trying many other options (ignoring the issue, fistfights, hijinks, talking to other people, etc) Sara and Leonard sort of try conversations involving words.It doesn't exactly not work.And it's definitely a step back from the ledge they were on before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains frank but not graphic conversations about past rape. Conversations about past legally sanctioned homophobia.
> 
> Still far less than properly negotiated anything but consent is more explicitly requested and given than previously.
> 
> More detailed warnings in the end notes.

Gideon confirmed her blood work was normal. Whatever was wrong with her, it wasn't physical. Wasn't some lingering effect of being drugged.

“No medical cause for your behaviors or impulses is apparent, Ms. Lance,” the AI said smoothly, almost kindly. “Perhaps you should consider a psychological solution?”

So it wasn't the easy way.

Amaya said, “Your spirit is troubled, Sara. It hungers and will not be satisfied.” And said she'd think about ideas for a spiritual fix. Of course that would involve telling Amaya exactly what the problem was. Exactly what she'd done. 

They could probably get Mick to do that, if he hadn't already. Ugh.

 

Instead she got Mick to punch her in the face, on the sparring mat. Which wasn't hard, to get him to try. And she let him connect. One, two. Taste of blood on her teeth, pain from what had to be a busted nose. Dizzy.

Then counterattack.

She had him down on the ground, knee in his chest. Punched him back, one, two, three. That would hurt. It had better.

He was guilty too. They both were. They both made things worse. Chronos was Mick and this death dealing, sick, twisted monster was Sara.

Leonard looked on from the sidelines, leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed in the pockets of Mick's coat. Quiet. Watching. Like this was important.

He met her eyes when she looked up at him. Blood on her face. In her mouth. Running down her face. Mick hit like a mule, but Leonard knew that intimately. 

When Mick stumbled to his feet, his face didn't look much better. He held his chest like it hurt. Bruised rib. She hadn't broken it. She knew he was looking at Leonard too.

Len, who suddenly half smiled at them both in not quite bemusement. It was a sweet smile, made it all the way up to his eyes. Then turned up his palms in rueful shrug and stalked away. His ass looked amazing in those jeans.

Ray and Nate were watching open mouthed from the other side of the room, with a bowl of popcorn.

“It's like pistols at dawn, but without the pistols,” Ray said. “I can be Sara's second if there are going to be pistols. I love duels of honor.”

Nate took a mouthful of popcorn and chewed thoughtfully. “Guess you get me as your second, Mick. Too bad your damsel isn't sticking around to comfort either of you after that amazing display of whatever the hell that was.”

“That's what you get for picking Snart to be your damsel,” Ray said. “I mean, well, he is attractive though. Kind of a jerk, but attractive. It's the eyes. And the whole-- slinky rouge thing.”

“You're both idiots,” Sara muttered and stuffed a towel against her bloody nose. “I'm picking Amaya to be my second.”

“I don't need a second anything,” Mick muttered, still clutching his ribs. “And Blondie's right. You are idiots. Fuck off.”

They stared at each other. “Drink?” Mick asked. His eye was visibly swelling already.

“Sure,” Sara muttered.

 

“Don't do that again, you idiots,” Leonard said. He was waiting in the kitchen with painkillers and booze, which he handed out liberally to both of them. “I never needed to get called a damsel by Nate Heywood or Raymond Palmer. There was never a path in life that was supposed to lead to that.”

Sara peeked at him from the corner of her eye when he stomped off to get his own beer. Caught the grin that hadn't actually gone away. The spark of amusement in his eyes. Of pleasure.

And she felt… happy. Not even a hint of darkness or the urge to anything other than maybe kiss him. Definitely kiss him. A lot. Once she washed all the blood off. Which she did not want to get all over him. At all.

“Hey,” she said, rubbing her aching head. Probably smearing more blood from her nose into her hair, the opposite of washing off. Yuck. “Heeeey. I think head knocking therapy might have worked. Thanks, Mick, you hit like a brick wall.”

Mick looked dubiously at her. “Best kind, Blondie. So, no more… urges? I'm really tired of cleaning up after you.”

She shook her head. Grabbed it. Ow. “The urge to go stick my head in an ice bath and never move again.”

“Good,” he pronounced. Then he ambled off to grab another beer and grinned at Len. “The idiots are not wrong. You are the prettiest damsel, Snart.”

Len smirked. “Always nice to be appreciated.”

Sara thought it was hilarious. Right up until Mick casually wrapped his arm around Len's shoulder and kissed him on the mouth, very gently. Probably because she'd punched him and it had to hurt.

“My turn,” he said and glared at Sara. Which was fine. Just there was nothing remotely wounded in the way Len looked at him. He looked happy, calm. 

Relaxed into Mick's touch so fast she almost missed the flinch.

Like what she'd done, what Chronos had done was something he could brush right off and move on from. And she knew that wasn't true, she knew he'd had practice, too much, just getting on with things.

But Len just said, “Sure. See you later, Sara. And I will see you later, so wait up.” And gave her a veiled look from under his lashes and a tilted up smile.

And she knew that part of the deal was that Len and Mick had their thing. She'd just never seen it in this form before, in her face like that. A kiss, so easy and careless, like old lovers who didn't really need to hide it anymore. Which they were. 

And she absolutely wanted nothing more than to slit Rory's fucking throat and fuck Len over his cooling corpse and make him clean up the body afterwards. 

Ok, right, so getting hit in the head didn't work out the way she'd hoped.

She buried her face in her hands and groaned and then dragged herself to the medbay. Len might wear bruises until they went away on their own (and he should) but that didn't mean she had to.

Then she could go have a shower and a bottle and stay far away from Leonard until she had her shit under control. Or he came to see her later. Whichever.

 

“I want to try it,” Len told her when he let himself into her room far later than she'd expected. 

She was clean and mostly healed and did not tell him about the staying away memo.

He was drinking coffee. Irish, she could smell the whiskey when he handed her a second mug of it. And wearing clothes that were obviously a few sizes too big, obviously Mick's, right down to the belt. The only benefit of it, from Sara's perspective, is that the shirt hung loose around his neck, revealing a stretch of Len's collarbone she didn't get to see often.

“Try what?” She asked. Mostly looking at the collarbone. Imagining cutting into the collar of his shirt with scissors or a very sharp knife, widening it, exposing his skin bit by bit. Maybe with his hands tied. Maybe she'd just tell him not to move them and hurt him if he did.

He flushed like he could hear what she was thinking. “Try… playing cops and robbers. You be the cop.”

She swallowed, fantasy suddenly shoved away. But, oh man. “We agreed that was not a good idea. I… I hurt you.”

“Didn't. Actually. Agree. You called it off. And this wouldn't be like that. It would be somewhere safe.” He made a face around the word ‘safe'. But he still looked happy, hopeful. He sat down on her bed, sprawled over it with the loose body language of someone who'd been well fucked. Which didn't help her state of mind. “I would like to try it.”

She opened her mouth to say it was a bad idea. Really bad. 

“Ok,” came out instead. “How is it going to be safe?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have a plan.” Then he yawned. Which was contagious. Apparently Irish coffee could only do so much. “But later. Come on, Sara.”

Come on Sara turned out to be, let's go to sleep. Because he climbed under her blanket, yawned again, heavily, and made himself comfortable on her pillow.

She smacked her forehead and found herself yawning too. She wanted to. She really… “ok, Leonard.” 

She sighed and stripped to her underwear before she climbed in next to him. The rage, the urges, sputtered a little, hard to sustain when he was here, in her bed, loose and vulnerable, eyes closing almost immediately. He had to be exhausted.

He had to trust her so damn much. 

She kissed him on the forehead and his eyelids crinkled but he didn't open them. She closed her eyes too.

She had shit dreams. 

She woke up sweating, the blankets soaked sound her and he was awake too, but soft eyed and confused. Like he'd been startled awake. Watching her. “Are you ok?” He asked so softly. “Awake?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. And, stronger, “I really want to take that belt off you and use it to tie your hands behind your back.” Mick's belt, too big.

He paused, motion slow and unsteady. Blue eyes still sleep muddled, like he was trying to make sense of the words.

She could almost see his pulse jump when he did. “I shouldn't wear it to sleep anyway. It's not exactly comfortable.” He shifted up enough to undo it and slide it off. Slow.

Handed it to her and then turned around, hands behind his back. Offering.

“You're shaking,” she whispered. She let the leather whisper through her fingers. Saw him go still. His hands. 

She thought about whacking them, how the crack of leather would sound on skin. The bruises it would leave.

But she didn't, just looped the leather around his wrists and pulled it tight. Keeping it there, him there. She held the end in her hand.

Then stroked down the line of his back, slowly, gently, while he shook. Nothing but that.

Pet his back, and his hair and the tight muscles of neck and shoulders. Skin warm where she could touch it.

She pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck and he gave a soft little sob and then went quiet. And shook like he'd shake himself to pieces.

When she touched his cheeks they were wet.

“I don't think this is ever going to be safe,” she whispered. “Not for you and me.”

He didn't answer for so long she wondered if he'd even heard. But then, finally, “Safe doesn't really do it for me.”

She lay her head against his shoulder and waited while his breathing steadied. Ran her fingers over his bound wrists.

Swallowed, started to talk.

“I dreamed- I-- Ivo put Oliver in a cage and they hurt him. I couldn't save him. Couldn't even protect myself,” she said and she remembered, it was all she could see, the dark hold of the Amazo and the endless, swallowing sea. The thick smell of blood and pain and cold salt water. 

Oliver. Who hadn't died, she reminded herself, even when so many others had. Nyssa who saved her, and she hadn't saved either, in the end. But who was alive.

Leonard leaned back carefully as much as he could, toward her. “You learned how to protect yourself,” he said. “It wouldn't go like that now. So has he, you wouldn't need to save him.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I learned how to be a monster. You of all people should see that.”

He sighed, shifted a little, turning himself to the side. Easy movements, even like this. Looked at her. “I of all people know what it's like to go from just surviving to waking up and realizing you're the monster now. And that it's fun, that you love what it makes you. You love the power of not giving a shit about anything.”

She shook her head. “I really wish I didn't give a shit about anything.”

He leaned forward again, against her. Pressed a kiss on the top of her head. Bound hands still twitchy in her grip. “No, you don't. That's why you're a better person than me.”

She frowned. Looked at him. “That's not you anymore. Anyway, when you sacrifice yourself to save time and free will you get a lot of not a monster credit.”

She felt the short huff of his laugh on her skin. “It's still fun, not gonna lie. Besides, I'm the one comforting you here, don't steal my thunder.”

“Right, stealing is your job.” Tightened her hands around the leather of the belt instead of his skin, until it squeaked. 

“Naturally.” Len sighed, smile fading a little. “But you've got me all tied up here, so it isn't easy.”

She kissed him and tasted salt and sweat. Again and again.

 

They hunted down a nest of occultists in 1898 New York and Len wore a bowler hat and carried a revolver, grinning maniacally the whole time. Sara had her own revolver, but the team really had the glee factor.

Ray got knocked on the head and tied up in a creepy crypt/basement and Len almost cackled with that glee when they rescued him. 

“The only way this would be better is if you were tied to the railroad tracks by snidely whiplash,” he said.

“You are not funny,” Ray responded.

“He's hilarious, haircut,” Mick said, without laughing.

“I just want to make sure you get the full damsel treatment, Palmer,” Len said and grinned again.

Sara watched, her own gun holstered. 

They got away, almost clean, but a girl, dark eyed and dressed in a flowing white gown like it was a wedding dress, or a costume, stepped out of the shadows and put her hand on Len's arm.

Her eyes gleamed red in the gaslight, like a thing possessed, and she said, “Parricide. You deserved everything you got and more.”

He stopped, blank for a moment, and said, “No, he did,” like he was in daze.

“He's waiting for you in hell, Leo. They've got a room all ready for you and he's going to be so excited to see you.” Then she leaned closer and whispered something else to him, too low for anyone else to hear.

Len shook his head and pulled his arm back sudden and sharp, causing her to stumble back. She giggled, eyes still blazing red, head jerking back and forth.

Sara jumped ahead, pushing in front of him. Mick a moment behind. 

The girl vanished back in the shadows like she'd never been real.

When Sara turned around his face was stark, set. No one spoke at all.

“It doesn't matter if it's true or not,” he said to her later. “I don't believe in hell, not the way they mean. I've been dead and I don't-- that didn't happen.”

“I'd come and get you,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes. “I would come and get you wherever you were.”

He nodded and smiled and she knew he didn't believe it at all. “Thanks. Between you, Mick and the rest of the idiots on this ship who've promised that one, I'm covered,” he said like he was going to pretend anyway. And that was new, that he was going to at least pretend.

 

They stopped for shoreleave of sorts in 2017. It was winter and bitter with it. She visited Laurel's grave alone and knelt down on the snowy ground. Her sister was in the cold ground and she was the one walking the world.

She heard the footsteps, careful, crunching through the snow, so familiar she closed her eyes. 

“Hi Ollie,” she said without turning around. “How are you?”

“I don't really know how to answer that. How are you, Sara?”

She shrugged. Then stood up decisively turned, and threw her arms around him. Felt the recoil and relax of his body, before he leaned into the hug and returned it, hard. His chin tucked against her head and he didn't let go.

“I'm alive,” she said. “I haven't killed anyone who matters to me.”

“Wow. Our standards have gotten low,” he said and she laughed, even though it wasn't funny.

She didn't, couldn't stay long. But it felt like something to touch him again and remember the dreams weren't real here and now.

 

She got a text from Leonard with coordinates not too long after. She blinked, recognizing them.

Yr joking? She texted back.

Just come. Was the only response.

So she got into a borrowed car and made the drive out to middle of nowhere, Keystone county. It was a lot better than Star and everything that was missing.

And he was there.

It's not like in 1992. It's derelict, fenced off, and probably has been for at least a decade, if not longer. Len's bike is parked outside, but he's not on it. She touched it, felt the leather and steel under her hands. It was cool.

There was a hole in the fence and she shrugged and climbed through it. The lock on the front door was smashed open. The air felt bitter.

“The local kids come here to fuck or get wasted, I'm pretty sure,” Len's voice echoed from down the hall. “Going up in the world from a cop shop.”

“Wait, so this is your plan?” She said. “Just this?”

“It doesn't always need to be complicated.” He looked amused when she finally saw him, slouching on the broken remnants of someone's desk. He's got his parka on, and it's even the season for it.

His smug smile firmly planted on his face like he knew exactly what it did to her and was counting on it.

She didn't ask what made any of this safe. She was tired. It was his turn to worry about this.

“So what was the crime? That you got arrested for,” she asked instead. "Not the Lewis thing?"

He laughed. “No. Sodomy. Want to commit some more? I'm pretty sure anal and oral still go in on a technicality even if it's straight.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Sodomy. What was it really? Was it something ridiculous? Petty theft? Stealing Grandma's prize poodle?”

“Felony pooch snatching?” He grinned genuinely. Then shrugged. “Actually, it was really sodomy. The DA wouldn't prosecute in ‘92, but you could still get booked.”

She blinked. Had she known that? “I-- really? That is ridiculous.” 

“The world has changed a lot in twenty five years,” he said and shook his head. “If they'd really wanted to hold me, they'd have tacked on soliciting. The DA would have charged that.”

She half smiled. “Were you, um, soliciting?”

His mouth twisted. “Nah. But I did get caught getting a blow job from the small town hero. Captain of the football team. Sheriff's son. Daddy was not thrilled.”

“So he had you arrested.”

“Yup. Knew it was going to go south when they brought me in and didn't print me or book me into the system.” He looked away and frowned. “I'm actually lucky I didn't end up in ditch somewhere.”

She swallowed. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes. His fingers were tapping against his thigh now, but it was his only real tell of discomfort.

He still had that physical looseness, his body sprawled out like he owned the room. And she wondered how badly that had pissed off that sheriff. 

“And then, he…” she gestured at him and then shook her head. 

“He and his two buddies. They were too scared for one on one and anyway it's not queer if it's a bonding experience with your drinking buddies.” He stood up suddenly, and pointed down the hall. “Come on. It wasn't here.”

Her breath caught and she felt a wave of something on her belly. Want and hate and the urge to destruction. She should have stayed in ‘92 and-- what?

Killed the bastards.

Fucked him herself.

Both.

Right.

He strode down the hall, long legs eating up ground, and a part of her wondered what she would have done. If she wanted to break him. Cuff him? Maybe with leg irons to hobble him? Make him crawl?

She shivered. The impulse sputtered. 

Followed him down to the decaying hallway, plastered with workplace safety posters from fifteen years ago. To a holding cell.

It wasn't big, but it was dark. No windows. The wiring obviously wasn't working. Only dim light filtering in from the hall kept it from being pitch black.

She got the impression of bars from the holding cell. A cage.

“Do you have a--” she started when he flipped on a flashlight before she had a chance to ask.

It looked worse that way. Dirty, graffiti covered, old blankets piled up in a corner. Beer empties stacked up in a pyramid. 

The smell was stronger here too, without a window to circulate the air. 

Len's face looked different in the light, sharper. Hollow. “Yup. Smells like drunk teenagers.”

She muttered, “give me my hip flask and take away twelve years and I'd fit right in.”

“Right, thanks for reminding me I'm old,” Len said. The he stopped and took a breath. “It was here. Just so you know. It's… it wasn't like this when the place was up and running. This feels more like thinking about having sex in a squat after running away from home.”

“Yeah, the smell of pee, beer and decay changes up the atmosphere,” Sara said. “And I've lived in some places with atmosphere to spare.”

He shrugged. “Hey, it's all fun and games when you're young and dumb.”

“So, how did it feel?” she asked, suddenly. “Being young and dumb and here.”

“Awful. Humiliating. Like I was alone in the dark and no one I loved would ever want to get near me again. Inevitable. Like it was supposed to happen. It's what happened to queers.” His voice was steady, almost light. He turned around, as if to inspect some scribbled words painted in blood red on a wall. “I thought they'd kill me after, and that didn't help.”

Sara felt like the skin around her eyes was on too tight. A prickle, not quite painful. She stepped closer to him. “When it was me, in the beginning, I felt almost grateful. Because he was protecting me, never mind he caused the danger. If it weren't for him it would be worse. And he was-- it felt like the least I could do. I didn't feel humiliated until later.”

He nodded, slowly. Like what she said made sense to him even though it didn't make any sense to her. “That's how they do it in prison. Make the-- the victim feel like they have to rely on their protector or else be anyone's prey. Get in your head.” 

She finally touched him, carefully, on the arm. Heard his intake of breath, felt him shiver and not pull away. “How many cigarettes did you go for in the joint?” she asked.

He laughed at that. “None, believe it or not. Mick wasn't selling. And I was a scary son of a bitch, I might cut you in a dark corner if you looked at me weird.”

“Aww, well I'd definitely buy.”

“Well you're pretty scary yourself, Sara Lance.” He leaned down and paused, stopped just short of kissing her. “Is there any way we can stop talking about this now?”

She nodded. Wrapped both hands around the back of his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

He kissed back, warm and open. His mouth opened up easily for her and he let her maneuver him back and back and back until he was flush against the wall. It was good leverage for him, if he wanted out.

He shivered and stared at her in the dim light. Eyes dark. No push to move. She stroked his face, cupped it in her hands.

“Did they-- were you naked?” She asked softly.

“Very.” He sighed. Reached into a pocket of his parka and pulled out something, a bag. Pushed it into her hands.

Inside was cold metal. Handcuffs. The metal end of a collapsible police baton. A gun. Police issue. Safety on. A plastic bottle of lubricant. Condoms.

“It's not loaded,” he offered, cooly.

She didn't ask what she was supposed to do with that. She just looked at him and he met her gaze steadily.

“Are you sure?” She asked and not about the gun. Stupid questions.

He made a face, which looked almost sinister in the dark. “My favorite thing about you is the way that we don't have to talk about this.”

She nodded. “Take your clothes off, Leonard.”

He closed his eyes. Moved his hands. Shook his head.

She paused. Looked down at the bag and back at him. She picked up the baton. It was heavy in her hand, cold metal. She swung it hard, her the click and scrape as it telescoped. 

“So where does this go?” She asked, almost sweetly. 

He shifted on his feet a little. She tapped it on the ground, hearing the metal clack, then lifted it up. Touched it, slowly, very gently against the skin under his chin. No force, almost a caress. He didn't flinch from that, not the way he did from human touch.

Let it slide down, catch against the zipper of his parka, push it down, open. Down.

Over the vulnerable line of his stomach and up between his legs. He shifted and made a noise, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to get closer.

“You're hard,” she said. Because he was. Tight jeans didn't lie.

Pulled it back. Watched him shake. The interplay of want and fear and want and fear. 

“Take your clothes off, or I will,” she said, still quiet, gentle.

He flinched then even though she wasn't touching him. 

She thought about hitting him with it, the crack of it on his skin. But that wasn't it, that wasn't what this was. She said, “You're not alone. This is yours. You can have it.”

He nodded, she could see him swallow, focus. “I'll do it,” he said and he did. Careful, methodical. Coat first, sliding it down his shoulders. Boots and socks. Jeans. Underwear.

It was so cold she was shivering for him.

Her breath caught, because this was him and he didn't do this. He didn't do this for anyone. And he was hers.

He sighed and pulled off sweater and then shirt. Sighed and stood up. 

She couldn't see well, not as well as she wanted to. Mostly just the ink of his tattoos. Chest hair. Muscle tone. She wondered if that was deliberate. The dark. This place.

She still wanted-- harsh bright light, to see, to touch. She was still…

But he was. He was bare. She put the toys he'd brought aside. Different day.

Instead she stepped up and into his space. Kissed him.

“Are your teeth chattering?” She asked. She ran a hand down his body, cupped it around the softening weight of his cock. It stayed soft.

“I didn't plan for how cold it is,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

She sighed. Picked up the parka from where he'd discard it and draped it back on, over his shoulders. He startled.

She pushed him back again. “Just stay,” she said and knelt down, gripping the line of his hips, fingers digging in hard. “Stay,” she said.

And she put her mouth on him. On his skin, the hollow of his hip, muscle of his thighs, lean and sinewy. The old scars. The chest was the worst, which made sense. She couldn't see his back well enough to judge that.

By touch she could feel the difference between lines of ink, puckered scars and the rough feel of a brand. She wanted to see it better. All of it. Him. For it to be less cold.

String him up bare in a warm, bright room where everything was hers. Him included.

He barely made a sound as she moved over his body, but his hands slid down tangling in her hair. And his body stirred, slowly, while she circled her tongue around the head of his cock.

She sucked him in just as slowly. It was a while before he really got hard, before he shifted and shivered. Her jaw ached and she could really feel the chilly pressure of the floor on her knees.

But the sounds he made. She dug her nails into the bare skin of his ass and he came. She swallowed it this time. Looked up and saw his face, exhausted and stark.

“This wasn't exactly what I had in mind,” he whispered. He sounded so tired. Like it had been weeks since he'd slept. “Or that you did as far as that goes.” She shrugged. Kissed him, let him taste himself on her breath.

“We'll get there,” she said. And she was actually starting to believe it. “You can have this, I promise.”

He half smiled, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warning : They're still trying to negotiate what is essentially a consensual non con roleplay of an actual rape. They've managed to clear up that this is something they'd both like to do, but refuse to discuss parameters at all. 
> 
> Given that they both actually like each other a lot, they struggle with this.
> 
> Also a historical note: the US supreme court found laws criminalizing consensual gay sex to be unconstitutional in 2003, at which time at least three states still had criminal sodomy laws. 
> 
> A number of states still have laws like that on the books, even though they have been found to be unconstitutional and are no longer enforced.
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me @ https://ninhursag.dreamwidth.org/


	2. And it bears repeating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags. 
> 
> More talking around the issues that might qualify as some negotiation in their world
> 
> Some very rough sex that is nonetheless consensual and they have danced around for a while.
> 
> Trauma responses during sex
> 
> Discussions of rape.

“I have a place,” Leonard said, when they were back outside leaning on his bike. He always looked different with his clothes back on and buttoned up. Steady, inviolate, certain, even when he was so obviously tired. It made Sara itch for him. “Condo set up in Keystone proper. What do you say?” Then he smiled his narrow, fake smug smile, like he was actually unsure of her response.

She was doing something wrong if he wasn't sure of that much.

“Sure,” she said. She had family to see, friends. He did too, his sister at least. But there was time. She wanted this.

Leonard gave her the address and she put in her gps, following after him.

The place wasn't exactly a safehouse, but it was clearly not an ordinary home either. It looked like a furnished short term rental place, generic, but it was high up and someone had worked hard to make it defensible. Three potential exits she could spot, one via a roof, solid doors and heavy, well made locks.

There was a lot she probably wasn't spotting too.

He entered a code into the alarm system and she felt herself relax just a little in a way she hadn't even realized she was tense. Safe behind his security measures, she could worry a little less about her own. She trusted him.

“We should have come here to begin with,” he said. “The other- it's winter. It was overly optimistic.” He didn't need to say anything else.

She looked at him. The bruised exhaustion under his eyes, on his face was more obvious in normal light. “I think you need to sleep first, Len,” she said.

His mouth twisted. “Would be great if I could, Sara.” He pulled off his coat and held out his hand for hers. Hung it in the closet like a normal host. 

“Grand tour?” He offered.

It was such a weirdly normal place. Big, clean kitchen. Some nonperishable food in the cabinets and frozen meals. A liquor cabinet.

Normal living room with an old fashioned TV dusty in a corner. 

The art in the bedroom was a little too nice and she did a double take, but couldn't quite place it. He grinned at her when he caught her noticing and didn't offer an explanation.

Behind the bedroom closet was a heavy, steel reinforced door. 

“Where's this lead?” She asked, carefully.

He shrugged. “Panic room. It's also going to be perfect for our… needs.” 

She didn't have a chance to ask before he pressed his palm against a lock and entered a code and the door swung open.

“I'll key it for you before we get started, just in case I'm not in the right headspace to let us out,” he said, still calm and cool, and like he hadn't just suggested he'd be too messed up to open a door later.

“Len,” she began, carefully. 

He shook his head, “it's a precaution, not a directive. I don't think you'd-- I trust you. But we haven't been good about being careful.”

The room was stark. Plain white walls, like an interrogation room.

A futon in the corner, metal framed.

Some monitors on the wall, showing camera angles, infrared. A chair next to them and a small desk with a neat pile of paper and a closed laptop on it. There was a dusty sealed case of Ensures and another of protein bars under the table, like someone expected to need the calories.

He unsnapped the cold gun from it's holster and lay it on the table and she realized she hadn't even known he'd had it on him. He gave her a quick little smirk like he knew that too.

They talked inanities while he did as promised and keyed her biometrics into the system. 

“So,” he said when it was done. Easy sprawl, hands in his pockets. “Should we… how do you want to do this?”

She looked down at her own feet. How did people just… talk about this? Laughed a little at herself and looked up to see the matching glint of self mocking amusement in his eyes. “People do this,” she said out loud. “And we're people. Let's… let's eat first?”

So they did. Freezer burned lasagna from 2016 but hey they'd both had worse. She felt calmer, steadier, with that in her.

“If you tell me to stop, do I?” she asked, suddenly, in a pause where they'd talked about random local politics instead. She was very sure she could, if he asked, if she was supposed to. She hoped.

He frowned. Sucked in his lower lip like he was genuinely thinking it through. Eyes half lidded. “No. I won't. But if I do, don't, I want to take it... Unless it'll bother you.”

That made her shrug. “I don't know. If I tell you to stop--”

He frowned. “I will stop if you do. I can't. That would bother me.” There was no uncertainty there.

Sara shook her head. “It should bother me. It's sick that it doesn't.” And the truth was it did bother her. But not enough to not go through with it. Not when he could look her in the eye and say he wanted to take it.

He just shrugged. “We have different issues. There's nothing wrong with that. And, I might know that you can kick my ass, viscerally, but you're this- ” he gave a small wave of his hand at her body. Then a bigger wave at himself, “and I'm not. It would feel too much like-- domestic violence.”

“Very sexist, Lenny,” she said and laughed at the face he made. But. She still couldn't let it go. “You said, earlier, that you liked the possibility of being able to say no.”

Another full shouldered shrug. “And I don't want to, I'm tired of being-- Look, I trust you.”

“Why?” She asked.

Another shrug and a smile. “You've earned it.”

She took his hand and held it for a long moment, until he stopped smiling. “I want to smack you around, strip you naked, humiliate the fuck out of you and treat you like a cheap thug that needs breaking.” 

“I know,” he said and swallowed and she watched the line of his throat move. The blue of his eyes was a narrow ring around the dark pupil. “I am deeply aware. Pain will help, you should use it.” Then he tilted down to kiss her, very carefully. She sighed. Kissed him back and stroked her fingers through his rough, close shorn hair. Gentle now when she wouldn't be later.

So they shared a bottle of shitty beer. And when he was done with the dishes, she put a hand on his wrist, feeling the startled flinch, and said, “clean yourself out.”

He blinked at her, a faint but visible flush spreading over his skin, and nodded. Did mutter, “aww but it's part of the authentic charm,” which made her smile. 

He still looked exhausted but the spark of want was there and obvious. Second wind. Maybe twenty-second. The sane part of her wanted to get him to the point of collapse so he could just sleep. But he wasn't going to go for that.

She waited for a while, using the other bathroom herself, and then going through the toys he'd brought to the old station.

Cuffs, police baton, the gun. It really was unloaded, she checked carefully, but said it aside. Guns weren't her thing. The lube was a high quality brand that made her smile.

She had her own stuff, a spreader bar, mostly because she didn't have easy access to leg irons. A plug with a tapered end. Extra condoms. A nastily sharp knife, perfectly balanced and made just for her hand but that she'd never used before. Nothing that had tasted death.

It took him about twenty minutes to come out of the bathroom and he didn't meet her eyes. He looked clean though, skin still a little damp. Long sleeve t-shirt clinging to his arms and chest. Watched him take a deep, unsteady breath. 

His feet were bare, not even socks, pale and vulnerable.

Then he leaned against the table in an easy sprawl and looked her right in the eye. Gave her a smile that was one hundred percent nerve. 

“So, are you all talk, Sara?” he drawled, and looked her up and down, calm and so lascivious it was a dare. “A little bit of slap and tickle and some handcuffs do it for you?”

Her heart sped up, and she felt the rage, lust, and the hunger, slow and banked and so easy to let blaze up. He was playing, teasing. She could show him this was no game.

She followed him into the panic room and heard the door click shut and the lock engage. No one was getting through that door without one of their say so's. Hers. For now.

“You're going to need to watch your mouth, Snart,” she said just as calm.

He leaned back on his elbows. She looked him up and down and couldn't even see the tension she knew was there. “You think that just because you're a pig's daughter and you had a hard time, you can do what you want? Kill what you want and fuck what you want?”

She smiled at him. Without another word she was in his space. She could smell soap and sweat and the warmth of his skin. His face was so handsome and unmarked right now. “I can't do it to whomever I want, just to you. Because as long as I don't do anything Gideon can't fix, no one gives a shit what happens to you, Snart. ”

He blocked her grasp when she went for his wrist which made her smile. She wasn't sure he would. Had he fought much before? Or been hopelessly overwhelmed from the start?

He was a brawler and strong, but he wasn't in this fight to win, not even close. He got in a blow that would have hurt if it connected right, but just glanced off.

She caught his right wrist in an easy move, he could break out of it if he wanted to, but it would mean at least spraining the joint. Maybe a break, depending on the angle. She could see the calculation in his eyes, like he was deciding if that was going to happen.

She smiled at him and licked her lips. He spat in her face. 

“You're being fucked by a girl,” she told him, grinning, ignoring the spit dripping down her cheek. She twisted the wrist, just enough to hurt, to show the stress of the position she had him in. He looked back at her, still calculating. “How do you think your criminal associates would feel if they saw Captain Cold like this? Blood in the water for them? Who'd go next?” 

“How would your hero friends feel if they saw you like this, killer?” he hissed back. “Going to wonder about your kinks? How dark you really are?”

She grabbed the cuffs from the table. He fought that harder than the touch of her hands, breath coming out faster. Long legs kicking out and making her duck back. She kicked back, aiming at a joint, going for leverage.

Almost instinct and she barely prevented herself from breaking his wrist after all when shifted her grip, could feel in his sudden intake of breath that he knew she almost had. 

See it in the way he went still, suddenly. Eyes on her. So blue, suddenly wide. His lips parted a little, cheeks flushed.

“You said pain would help. If you fight me, I will hurt you very badly,” she said. “Is that what you need me to do?”

He shook his head. Kept still otherwise. She turned the wrist a little in her hand, frowning at it. 

“You need to answer me in words, Lenny. I'm going to hurt you. Your call if it's doctor worthy. Is that what you want?”

“No, Sara,” he said, quietly. His hand was utterly still in her grip. She released the stress grip and twisted it behind his back, cuffing it to the other one. Click.

He didn't flinch. He always flinched, at every new touch, but not this one. Just his slow, steady breathing, in and out.

She took a deep breath of her own. In through the nose, out through the mouth, even. Calming the rage. Put her hands on his chin, holding him like that. “Leonard. If you need to call this, tell me now. Please. I won't be-- it won't cost you me. It won't cost you anything.”

He shook his head in sharp negation, tugging away. “You promised me this, it was your damned idea,” he spat out, real anger in his eyes for the first time in a while. It helped, recognizing what that looked like and not the show of it. “Stop making me beg you for it.”

She nodded once and then slapped him hard, across the cheek. He wasn't ready for it. The crack of her open palm sent him back hard and she followed it up with a punch to the gut that knocked the breath out of him. He managed to stay on his feet, even off balance with his hands bound behind his back. Impressive.

“I am going to make you beg,” she said, very softly. She cracked her knuckles. Punched him again and watched him rock back. “I actually don't care to hit you anymore, so I need you to start shutting your mouth unless I tell you to open it.” She came close enough to touch, rubbed her knuckle against his bruised cheekbone. “Nod if you're going to be good. Keep talking if you need me to hurt you more.”

His smile was slow, bright, and reached his eyes. “I don't think you have it in you, Killer,” he said, slowly, deliberately, enunciating every word. Barely moving back at the second slap, cracking over his skin. His gaze shifted over to the police baton on the table and she followed his gaze, frowning.

“Want me to hit you with that? Nah. That's going up your ass, Lenny,” she said. “I don't need a weapon to break you, you already know what you're good for.” 

He shivered once, visibly and she just nodded. Not smiling now. “That's right. Did a big bad policeman do that you?” she crooned. “You can answer.”

He gave a quick jerky head shake yes. She lifted his chin with her hand and rubbed her thumb against it. “And did it make you come?”

An equally sharp, “no.” She didn't ask more, not yet. Later, that would come later.

“Not whore enough to come on a nightstick? Or aren't you? I bet you can and will.”

Another head shake, which she ignored. 

She ran her hand down the line of his cheek. The brush of prickly stubble. Softness of his lip. The wide eyed distant not quite stare that made her brush a finger over an eyelid, gently closing it. There was a cut over the eyebrow, bleeding a little. No reaction when she pressed a hand against it. She didn't want that, him gone off into his own head, not yet.

“First I need you to take off your pants,” she told him, pleased with how calm she sounded, with her own lips not quite pressed up against his mouth.

That got him. A flicker in his eyes, then he rolled them. Muttered, “I'm a little cuffed here. No hands.”

“I have faith in you. Do without.” She grinned widely, siding her hands down, thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. Skimming back over the scant curve of ass. “I'll give you ten minutes to save these or I'll cut them off for you.”

He glared. Annoyance oriented him. “I like these jeans.”

She leaned back a little, letting her gaze slide down him, slow and easy like she was sizing up something for purchase, “And they're very attractive on that tight little ass. Show me how much you want me to wreck it by getting this done.”

He shivered again, eyes shifting helplessly to the police baton and then back to her.

“Only nine minutes plus now. Use that internal clock of yours.”

“Oh fuck you,” he muttered, low enough she could pretend not to hear. 

It was beautiful as she'd thought it would be, watching him squirm. The long lines of his body, the way it moved so he could get his hands over to the buttons. That was the hard part. It wasn't comfortable at all, just short of painful, or not short at all, to get his bound arms twisted were they needed to be. He didn't even make a face, but she could see it in the twitch of his hands, the spasms of muscle in his arms.

The pink in his face while she watched him. Got her phone out and showed him the clock.

“Eight minutes left,” she said. “You're supposed to be good at this shit, Lenny. Or maybe you do want me to slice something off you.”

“Fuck you,” he repeated louder, as he got the buttons undone, finally, and the zipper down. She laughed at him. Watched him twist a little to move the fabric down his hips. 

“Bet you wish those weren't so tight,” she said and clicked her tongue. “Was showing off the goods really worth it?”

The writhing was pretty, it couldn't help but be, his body was strong and supple and she wanted him. But it wasn't like a stripper, not slow, not even the attempt at being sexy which made it better. Just gritted teeth and a sullen glare. Jerky, perfunctory movements. He winced when she grabbed his chin again and made him meet her eyes.

He got it at the five minute mark, kicked the jeans off his feet. The underwear was the easy part. 

His cock was hard, pressed up toward his belly. 

She smiled and looked from him, sweaty and still trembling a little, long legs bare, to the pool of fabric on the ground. “Hey, don't leave a mess. Fold those.”

He rolled his eyes. “How about no?”

Sara smiled wider and slapped his face again, almost casually, catching the cheek she hadn't bruised. He winced back. 

“Fold them,” she said, still calm. Hands balled into fists.

He did it, eventually, while she smirked at him, trying to maneuver with elbows and badly angled hands.

Then she brushed a kiss over the nape of his neck, “still a mess, but it will do.” The gentleness of the touch drew much more recoil than the slap. “So what's next?”

She waited until he looked at her before she took out the ankle cuffs and spreader bar. It was hard to find a piece of hardware like it, solid metal of the right length. Watched him watching her get it ready.

“You going to fight this too, Lenny?” She asked. His eyes narrowed, arms twitchy. He could get out of the cuffs eventually, just the way he had maneuvered around them. It would just hurt. Legs bound would make it harder. Make him that much more vulnerable.

He just breathed and glared and shuddered and didn't fight until after she'd fastened the first cuff to his right ankle. Closing it tight, buckled firm. 

The fight came then. He struck a good blow, unexpected, when he kicked out with his left leg and managed to knock her down, air momentarily rushing out of her lungs. 

Sara laughed breathlessly in surprise. His body pressed close to her, bound arms throwing him off balance but not enough that he couldn't push her down, use his weight against her. 

For a moment she let him. Waited to see what he'd do, once he'd gotten her on the ground. Which was nothing at all, just wait, panting. Eyes going blank and distant, the iris wider and bluer.

She pulled herself back up to a sitting position. Looked at him again. He shrugged. Sara put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again very carefully. Kissed him on the mouth when he was on the floor, feeling him open up and let her.

His eyes half closed and his breaths lengthened and evened. She stroked the skin of his left ankle in round little circles, almost soothing, when she fastened the cuff around it.

He winced. Breathing harsher, faster, when she tightened it around him. “Shhh,” she whispered. “I know you don't want to fight me. I know you need this.”

The spreader bar came next. She'd made some modifications to make it solid, no weakness were it hooked into the cuffs.

There was nothing smug or inviolate about him now, on the ground where she'd put him. Long, bare legs forced apart, arms held behind his back. She ran a hand over a thigh, feeling muscle and skin. A stray scar, long and white. Then up, over a narrow hip, prominent bone. 

Wrapped her fingers over his cock and stroked it roughly, up and down, just once. It felt warm, hard. She heard his teeth grind.

“Stand up,” she told him and pulled her hand away.

She didn't help him stand. Heat curled up in her belly watching him fumble through even that, awkwardly getting to his feet, bound and shaken. All the usual grace stripped away.

He didn't meet her eyes. His skin was red, a dull, heavy flush. She thought about pushing him down again, hands and knees, and putting her boot on him.

Instead she pulled out her knife from its sheath. His eyes fixed on it immediately. Lower lip sucked in, body shifting as much as it could in the restraints she'd bound him in. He couldn't jump back or steady himself with his legs pushed and held the way they were, would fall easily if pushed.

It really was a beautiful knife, the steel of the blade folded in waves until it shone in contrast with a plain black hilt. Beautiful knife, beautiful man.

“Sara,” he said, no more than a whisper.

She said, “this one was forged for me by a dear friend. She's special to me and this will be her first blooding. I would keep very still if I were you.” 

He tried, obviously, visibly tried.

The knife snicked softly, just under his collar, slicing through the thin, sweat soaked fabric of his shirt. She was very careful not to touch his skin with the blade much. Harder than it seemed, he was shaking too much, saying her name in a tone she didn't recognize.

Sliced down from neck to sleeve, right arm, left arm, and peeled the cut off fabric from his body. Leaving only a few spots where the knife bit him. A glancing kiss of blood on his shoulder. 

She kissed there again, with her mouth this time, tasting it. The tattoo inked underneath. The sweat, the smell of him, soap and old, old fear.

She took a step back and there he was, stripped and bound, in the light, in this stark little room. And she could look at him.

His beautiful body, with all the marks that showed how someone had tried to destroy it, him. Repeatedly. Knives and bullets, cigarettes and broken glass, only partially hidden by ink. By deliberately inflicted brands, scars made by an artist. There was just too much to cover, really. 

The puckered, defaced scar that used to be his left nipple was the worst. Then the lines of a cane, methodically stripes of white all down his back from just below his shoulders to just below his ass.

“You shouldn't have survived that,” she said, touching the scars, how deep they were, imagining them fresh. The blood, the shock. He had though. It took the fucking Oculus with the time stream behind it to kill him.

He didn't say anything. Eyes half glazed, half shut, not looking at her really. Not here. His breathing erratic. 

She waved her hand in front of his face. No eye roll or irritated glare. 

Well fuck.

“Len,” she said, and touched his face, tapped her fingers on it. He twisted away, pure instinct. “Leonard?” An exhale, soft. Her hands were gentle on his skin. “Can you listen to my voice? It's Sara. Your Sara. We're in your place. You have the codes to all the doors.” 

A shiver all through him. A blink. His eyes focused a little more. “Sara?” A whisper. Not quite.

“I'm Sara. These are my hands on you, can you feel them? My hands put those bruises on you,” she told him, carefully pressing her fingers on one, until he winced. “On you, Len. Not just anyone, not just some thing. You are not someone's thing.”

“Sara,” he whispered again, blinking. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. Wrapped an arm around him and touched his fingers. Naked skin and so much it and she hated that she still wanted… “Hey. Don't. Don't fucking apologize to me. Where are you?”

“I'm right where you see me.” He frowned. “I don't want to stop. If you do-- if it's too hard--”

“No. It's too easy.” And she wrapped herself around him harder. And it was easy. She wanted to be naked too. Wanted to just touch, to see. 

And then he steadied himself and muttered, “hey killer, I'm getting bored with the hugging, weren't you going to wreck me?”

And she hissed, “oh shut up, crook,” and pushed him down on his ass. He fell easily, making a sound as she landed on top of him.

She went back to looking at him, his skin, feeling his gaze on her, focused again.

“So you're my Sara, huh?” He said and smiled at her, smug, like he wasn't bound hand and foot and naked. 

She grinned back at him. And steady as she could, got back to the task of taking him apart.

She opened him up, first with her mouth and hands, his legs forced apart and vulnerable. He tasted good like sweat and clean soap, warm skin. Pink little hole, all cleaned out like she'd asked him, so she could rim him, open him up like that. Hard, pretty cock, wet against his thigh, barely touched.

“This is me,” she told him, into his skin. “This is yours.” 

And he whispered back, “yeah, I know. Yes.”

The satisfaction felt so deep, burned into her belly.

Then, when he was raw and open, asshole soaked with lube and spit, thighs marked up with scratches from her nails and eyes screwed shut. His cock flush against his belly, dripping with precome, she whispered, “I'm going to give you what you're so hot for. On your knees or on your back?”

He shook his head back and forth, eyes still closed. 

“How’d they do it?” She asked, softly. Palm pressed over his cock so she could feel it, but not letting him get more. “That's why you want it, right-- they did that to you?”

“Knees,” he said, finally. Low and rough. She watched him move again, teeth gritted, captive. No hands, so his face was on the ground, cheek pressed to the floor, ass in the air. 

Her stomach churned, the rage, desire, hunger, hate, the mix almost familiar now. Him on his knees, probably cuffed like he was now, and there'd been three of them and he'd been alone. And she gets it better where he's coming from, what he wanted from this.

“You're not theirs. This isn't theirs,” she told him and pressed a kiss against a scarred shoulder, ran her hand down the bare length of his spine. A wing tattoo, a snake. She had to be so careful and she wasn't good at it. “You're mine.”

More lube, a lot more. Coating her fingers, sliding in and out of him, so easy now. Touching skin.

He made sounds, low, deep ones, no words in them. It wasn't like this before, no one else could make him theirs. She could.

She shivered, felt like her underwear was soaked as he was and she hadn't been so much as touched. Power drunk. She got to do this. To him. With him.

Give him what he wanted, slow and careful, full him up with metal and rubber and make it good when it shouldn't be. 

“I promised,” she whispered in his ear, licking around the delicate skin. “I'm going to wreck you and you're going to love it.”

So she did, watched him squirm and shift with the discomfort of it, the hard, unyielding metal on him, in him. Ran a soothing hand from neck to ass, like she owned him. Lightly on his hip. Over his cock, hand wrapped around it, up and down, easy.

He let her and made that sound again, the one that cracked her open. When he came on her hand, on his own stomach and thighs and then went so still.

She unbound him carefully, trying not to make the obvious cuts worse and let him collapse into himself, balled up, with his head on her lap. It was hard to keep her eyes off the bruises on him, his face, his wrists, his thighs. It would be hard to think about anything else when she saw them again. Hard not to want.

“I think I love you,” she mumbled a long time later, into his short, rough hair while she stroked his neck and shoulders, rubbing in sweat. He let her do it, the touching. No comment.

He didn't let her say the words.

Instead he blinked and stared up at her. Blue eyes refocused just enough. “You know, I'm not Oliver Queen,” he said. “Whatever you think you didn't do for him, pretending you're in love with me won't change it.”

Sara found herself staring right back. “Pretending-- Oliver-- what the hell, Snart, are you high or did I really fuck your brains out?”

He made a face at her and shifted over like he was going to stand up. It didn't go well. He hissed, face tightened up in actual pain for a split second, and he stayed down. 

“Shit,” she said. The red raging part of her was sated, at least for now. The sane part-- she'd hurt him. “Did I?”

“It's fine, Sara,” he said back, steadily. “Don't do that either. Can we not do-- that-- that face you're making? It makes me feel like scum.”

She took a deep breath, looking up and away. Frowned. The panic room surveillance camera was still on and showing someone else in the apartment. “Who-- Len-- is that. Oh it's Mick.”

He frowned and grit his teeth enough to sit up without wincing. “Oh yeah. Well he knows where the beer is, it's all cool.” Then he sighed, let his head drop back into her lap, small as he could make himself. “I’m not shocked for what it's worth. That you have… feelings. And it's ditto, you know?”

She hadn't known that at all, but nodded sagely like she had and curled around him until she had the energy to get up. She had no idea how she was getting him out of this room anytime soon. Maybe it was a good thing Mick was here.

She cracked open one of the Ensures and actually drank some. Made a face and then drank some more. Len rolled his eyes at her when she offered him one. “No shelf stable hospital grade crap, thanks,” he mumbled like he wasn't the one who'd stocked the things.

Mick came in when she opened the door, which was fine because she still wasn't sure Len was going to be able to get very far without more will than he seemed to be interested in exercising right then.

And pretty awful, because Len was naked on the floor, ass red and still wet with lube and looked like he'd lost a fight before they got to the sex part. If it weren't for the faint, smug smile on his face that was all him, you'd think-- you'd be forgiven for thinking-- that it was even worse than it was.

“I don't wanna to have another fight with you,” she said, placating a little. “He'll get annoyed.” 

Len made a face, then buried it in the cold floor. “Excuse me. He, by which we mean me, wants to finally get some sleep and would not be annoyed if you went away and let me.”

Mick just shook his head and sighed heavily. “Really? On the floor, boss? I don't think Mistress Sara here, or whatever you're calling her is going to go for that.”

That startled a laugh out of Sara. Len flipped him off, which showed off how badly cut up his wrist was. Again.

Mick finished the beer he was still holding before walking over to Len and lifting him up bodily, bridal style. Len muttered but wrapped an arm around him and let his face flop into a strong, muscled shoulder. “Bring one of those things, Blondie. Or two.” Mick nodded at the already rejected drink.

She picked two up and followed them to the bedroom. Mick deposited a more or less cooperative Len onto the bed and turned to look at Sara. He didn't look mad, for a surprise just irritated. Tired like the rest of them.

He glared at Len until he drank the stupid drink, which was something.

“I'm getting another beer.” Mick said then and turned back to the kitchen and Sara followed him, when Len closed his eyes and shooed her off with a demand she get him one too.

“I know what you must think.” She said. He tossed her two bottles.

“I ain't judging, Birdie, if that's what you mean. Haven't been through what either of you have.” Mick looked up at her from over his beer. 

“You were judging before,” Sara said and hoped he wasn't going to elaborate on the second part.

Mick took another pull of the beer to hide his expression while Sara opened hers. “He'd never done anything like that before. Wasn't sure it wasn't more weird martyr crap coming up.”

Sara shook her head and managed not to bury her face in her hands. “It was my idea. He… went with it.”

Mick made a face. “You double dog dare him or something?” Then he rubbed the cold neck of the bottle against his forehead. “Look, I ain't judging. Wasn't pretty like he was. Or you. I got beat and robbed and spit on but no one looked at me and said I'm going to hold that down and fuck it.”

Sara stared at him. “It's not always about being pretty.” 

“So, just lucky. All I'm saying is, I only saw what that was like from the sidelines. But that shit, it ain't whatever you're doing now. So just don't kill each other.” Mick downed the rest of the beer and then went back to the bedroom without another word.

Sara followed him awkwardly, Len's beer in her hand. Len whose eyes were closed and face relaxed, while Mick pulled sheets and blankets over his naked body.

She stood just as awkwardly, in the doorway.  
“He looks like he hasn't slept well in a while,” she said.

Mick shrugged. “Well we're gonna make him now. Shoreleave, right?”

Sara nodded. Looked down at the bottle in her hand and then over at a relaxed and sleeping Len, Mick settled in next to him. Looming, a protective shadow.

“Should I --” she began.

Mick made a semi incoherent growl and patted the otherside of the bed, next to where he'd put Len.

“Get in, Blondie, I don't wanna have to explain where you went when he wakes up.”

“You think he's going to care?” she asked and it came out serious and not the way she'd meant to say it. She was obviously tired too.

An expressive eye roll. “Yeah. I think he's gonna care. And you shouldn't be wandering around like you are.”

“I'm fine,” Sara said and looked down at herself. Her clothes were disheveled and smeared with what she'd done to-- Len's blood and come and sweat. “I could wash up and be fine.”

Mick stared at her. “So what you're saying is, I have another idiot boss I need to save from their own dumbassness?” He said with an irritated deliberatation.

It was Sara's turn to stare at him, then down at Len's head, his closed eyes. Like she had any clue what to say. “I do need to shower. I have a bag with some of my stuff in my car.”

“So come back.”

And she actually did. Mick snored and Len muttered in his sleep and she wished the bed were bigger, but it was warm when she slid between the sheets. And for the first time in a long time, she felt something like safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I think this is almost over. 
> 
> Thanks for following on this journey through my Id!
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me @ https://ninhursag.dreamwidth.org/

**Author's Note:**

> The warning : They're still trying to negotiate what is essentially a consensual non con roleplay of an actual rape. They've managed to clear up that this is something they'd both like to do, but refuse to discuss parameters at all. 
> 
> Given that they both actually like each other a lot, they struggle with this.
> 
> Also a historical note: the US supreme court found laws criminalizing consensual gay sex to be unconstitutional in 2003, at which time at least three states still had criminal sodomy laws. 
> 
> A number of states still have laws like that on the books, even though they have been found to be unconstitutional and are no longer enforced.
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me @ https://ninhursag.dreamwidth.org/


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